The Necromancer's Guide To Living
by Annamonk
Summary: Benjy Fenwick has forgotten how to live, but a quirk of magic gives him a second chance. Learning to live is a bit more complicated than he imagined. Not my leaf pile, but I love jumping in it.


Benjy Fenwick stared down at the body of his friend and felt nothing. Her blonde hair fluttered and caught on the grass. The sockets where her eyes should be stared sightlessly up at the moon. There was blood everywhere. The ground was soft with it. The stench of bodily fluids and excrement mixed with the bitter scent of recent spell fire.

He had spent a night with her once. They'd shared a cheap bottle of elven wine and some sloppy kisses. They'd both been new to death and seeking some sort of solace.

He wanted to feel something as he examined the broken remnants of a woman that had dragged her fingernails down his back, but he didn't. He didn't need to throw up. He didn't need to mourn. He didn't need much anymore beyond his fags and his whiskey.

He looked over at Dumbledore's golden boys and shook his head. They were so cosseted. Black and Potter wandered around with their grief hanging on the line for all to see. They would leave in a moment. They'd find comfort in a pint or two raised to the memory of their fallen comrades.

He would slog through the night, erasing this family's links to the Order. He'd collect anything that might be of value or interest to Dumbledore. When it was done, he'd fall into his bed as the sun set the sky on fire.

He stepped away from the body and set to work. It was habit. He moved toward the house as things swirled up from the ground and followed along behind him. He pulled a small box from his pocket, enlarged it, and tossed it on the ground. Some of the items dropped into it while others continued to swirl around him. He pulled a second box from his pocket and tripled its size before setting it down carefully. The larger mass of items arranged themselves into the new box.

He didn't bother to examine the items. They were always the same.

The scraps of paper and the personal journals were the byproduct of a war fought by amateurs. The port keys that weren't destroyed after use were more of the same. Every single house he cleaned had these bits and pieces. The remnants of their foolishly given lives floated by him as he moved into the doorway.

Their half eaten dinner was still arranged on the table. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The scent of the food was heavy here. It pushed away the acrid stench of death.

He pulled out a third box from his pocket and let his magic work on it. The runes carved into the side slid along his fingers as it grew to a proper size. He felt his magic rise within him as he placed the box on the floor.

He was a Fenwick born on Samhain. Blessed or cursed with the deepest of his family magics, he knew death. He knew the dead. He was a necromancer born and a warrior made. His grandfather had seen to it, removing him from his parent's home as soon as he was walking.

He'd learned to use his powers and to conceal them. Necromancers, true necromancers, were misunderstood. They were perceived as evil, but evil had nothing to do with his special skills. As with all other magic, intent was the deciding factor.

He grimaced as he heard a few items land in his personal box. The secrets of his powers were well protected. He had never explained his legacy to anyone. Secrecy was his safeguard. His powers allowed him to collect knowledge from the dead. He collected the things Dumbledore wanted. The bits and pieces of death eater paraphernalia, the Order related items, and the rare magical items were easy to collect. It was gathering the things that helped him see through the fog of the living to the truth that left him shattered.

Dumbledore had no idea how much he knew. They were all just pawns to the older wizard, pieces on a board. It was a pity the man couldn't see more than a flat surface. The struggles above and below the surface were lost on him.

Benjy took a deep breath and opened his hand. The runic box snapped and flew to his hand, shrinking as it went. He caught the box and slipped it into his pocket as a ghost notified him silently of an approaching visitor. Benjy turned toward Marlene's ghost and nodded his thanks for the warning before sending her on with a gentle nudge of his gifts. She didn't need to remain on this plane of existence, trapped in her grief.

"Benjy, I see you've already cleaned the site." Dumbledore stepped into the room. His bright aqua and yellow robes were wildly out of place in this miasma of pain and suffering. "I hate to ask this of you again."

"They were tortured." Benjy looked around the walls at the various paintings. "It looks more like they did it for fun than for information."

"The McKinnons weren't all that involved in Order business." Dumbledore sighed. "They wanted to stay neutral if possible."

"Marlene was working with us." Benjy frowned and looked at the ribbon holding Dumbledore's beard in place. "She went down fast. Most likely, she was trying to give the others a chance to get away. They weren't fighters."

"It's a shame." Dumbledore nodded. He looked around the home with more curiosity than sorrow. "I wish they'd had stronger wards."

Benjy nodded. Dumbledore dangled those wards in front of frightened families hoping to sway them to his cause, but it came across as just another powerful wizard trying to drag them into battle. Of course, that's what it was.

"You've become very adept at cleaning up these messes, my boy." Dumbledore sighed. "It's a pity."

"Yes." Benjy nodded. "I would like to sleep a night through."

He saw the kindly mask slip a little. The old man's eyes flicked about and his hand stilled above his wand. Benjy his his smirk behind his hands.

"The nightmares won't stop. Even dreamless sleep won't help." Benjy let his shoulders sag. "Marlene was so kind. What they did, well, monsters seems to kind a word."

"If you need to mourn..." Dumbledore waves his hand in dismissal. "I'm afraid much more will be asked of you before this is over."

Benjy nodded and darted out the door. It was dangerous to bait the so called leader of the light, but he felt compelled to do so. Perhaps it was his macabre humor at work. He strode into the shadows and let them envelope him. It was so much easier to travel in darkness.


End file.
